**Diary Entry**
The air was thick with tension, the kind that settles like fog, suffocating and silent. Charles stood in the middle of the bedroom, already dressed in his best suit, fingers nervously adjusting his perfectly knotted tie. His voice was quiet, almost pleading. Emily didnt turn around. She kept her eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror, tracing her lips with wine-red lipstick with surgical precision. The dark burgundy silk of her dress clung to her figure, leaving little to the imagination yet still managing to look elegant. This was a dress for a woman who knew her worth. A dress for battle.
*”Whats wrong with him, Charles?”* Her voice was calm, steady, without a hint of irritation. That icy composure was what unsettled him the most. He was used to her temper, the heated arguments that always ended with a reluctant embrace and forced smiles. But this? This was something new. Something dangerous.
*”Well… you know how Mum is. She might think its… a bit much.”* He fumbled for a word that wouldnt sound like an outright accusation.
Emily finished her makeup, set the lipstick down, and slowly turned to face him. A faint, cold smile played on her lips.
*”Your mother would find a burqa too revealing if I wore it. Or have you forgotten her call to Aunt Margaret last week? Whisperingloud enough for you to hearabout how I was flirting shamelessly with old Mr. Harris? The man is eighty-two and still calls me by the postmans name.”*
Charles flinched as if shed struck him. He remembered that call. Hed stood in the hallway, pretending to look for his keys while his mother spread poison over the phone. That evening, hed simply told Emily to *”rise above it.”*
*”Emily, please. Not today. Its her fifty-fifth birthday. Lets just get through tonight. For me.”*
*”Rise above it.”* That had been the unspoken mantra of the last two years. Ignore the snide remarks about her cooking at dinner parties. Smile through the *”How to Keep Your Husband Happy”* book shed received as a wedding anniversary gift. Pretend not to notice the whispers, the sideways glances, the outright lies Margaret Sinclair spread with relish. Emily had swallowed it all. For him. For Charles, who looked at her with the eyes of a beaten puppy, torn between his mother and his wife.
But something had snapped. A month ago, a week ago, maybe that very morning when shed picked out this dress. Shed looked in the mirror and realised: no more.
*”Fine, darling,”* she said, softer than expected. Charles exhaled in relief. *”I wont make a scene. Ill smile at your aunts who think Im some scarlet woman. Ill kiss your mother and wish her many happy returns.”*
She stepped closer, straightening an invisible crease on his lapel. He moved to embrace her, but her body was rigid as a drawn bowstring.
*”Thank you,”* he whispered. *”I knew youd understand.”*
Emily met his gaze. There was no warmth in her eyes. Only cold calculation.
*”Ill even give a toast. Something lovelyabout family, loyalty, honesty. Im sure your mother will adore it.”*
She picked up her clutch, the scent of her perfume hanging sharp in the air. Charles smiled, mistaking her words for surrender. He didnt realise she wasnt walking into a celebration. She was walking to an execution. And she had no intention of being the victim.
The restaurant Margaret had chosen was drowning in gaudy gold and heavy, pretentious luxury. The air reeked of perfume, hairspray, and expensive food. To Emily, it was suffocating.
Charles beamed, introducing his mother like she was royalty, basking in the praise as if the party were for him. Emily played her partthe silent, decorative wifesmiling on cue, enduring the sticky, judgmental stares. Aunt Margaret shot her a disapproving glance before whispering to the woman beside her. The wife of Charless cousin inched closer to her husband, as though shielding him from corruption.
The poison had worked. To them, Emily was the outsider. The dangerous one.
After the third course, the hired hosta man with a voice too loud for the roomrapped the microphone.
*”And now, the moment weve all been waiting for! A toast from the woman of the hourour Margaret!”*
Applause erupted. Margaret rose, resplendent in champagne satin, every inch the queen. Her gaze lingered on Emily before she began.
*”Family,”* she declared, voice rich with practised drama, *”is our fortress. Our sanctuary. But every fortress needs a strong foundation. And that foundation is honesty. Loyalty. Purity of heart.”*
A pause for effect. Charles squeezed Emilys hand under the table, mistaking it for solidarity. He didnt realise it was the grip of a jailer.
*”The strength of a family lies in its women,”* Margaret continued, steel creeping into her tone. *”Their virtue shapes our future. And so, I raise my glassto unwavering family values!”*
The applause was thinner this time. Charles exhaled, smiling at Emily as if to say, *”See? Its fine.”*
Then the host called her name.
All eyes turned. Emily rose, glass in hand, her smile serene.
*”Margaret,”* she began, voice clear as cut glass, *”thank you. Truly. For your tireless concernfor our familys reputation, and mine in particular. Few would dedicate so much effort to their daughter-in-laws affairs.”*
A ripple of confusion. Margarets smile stiffened. Charles tensed.
*”You spoke so beautifully about honesty,”* Emily continued, her voice hardening. *”And I couldnt agree more. Without it, a family is just a house of cards. So let me drink to that. To the honesty youve shown mebehind my back, for years.”*
Silence. The waiters froze. The background music cut out.
She turned to Margaret, her smile turning razor-sharp.
*”Since youre so sure Im some harlotwhy dont you tell everyone here who the real father of your son is? You drunkenly confessed it to me last Christmas. He isnt Edwards, is he?”*
Time stopped.
Margarets face drained of colour. Charles went rigid. His fatherquiet, unassuming Edwardlooked between them, realisation dawning like a slow, sickening horror.
Emily sipped her wine, set the glass down with a soft *clink.*
*”Unlike you,”* she said coolly, *”Ive been faithful.”*
Margaret lunged across the table with a strangled cry, but Edward and a cousin dragged her back. Charles seized Emilys wrist, his grip bruising.
*”Were leaving.”*
The drive home was silent. Charless knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Emily stared out the window, feeling nothing but a hollow relief.
Inside their flat, he finally spoke.
*”Are you happy now?”* His voice was dead.
*”Thats a question for your mother. And yourself.”*
*”Shes my mother,”* he said, as if that excused everything.
*”And I was your wife. You let her destroy us.”*
He looked at her then, really lookedand saw nothing of the woman hed married.
*”I cant stay with you. Not after this.”*
She didnt argue.
A month later, divorce papers arrived. A single, unsigned note was tucked inside:
*”I couldnt protect you. And you couldnt spare me. I suppose we both lost.”*
She packed away the burgundy dress, donated it. Let it serve another woman.
Spring came. On a bridge over the Thames, they crossed paths.
*”Hello,”* he said.
*”Hello.”*
A pause. The river flowed beneath them, carrying away the wreckage.
*”Goodbye, Emily.”*
*”Goodbye, Charles.”*
She walked on, the wind pulling the last of her tears away. She didnt know what lay ahead. But for the first time in yearsshe wasnt afraid.
